


keep your lights on

by ladyalysv (verity)



Series: when the bars all start to close [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, NHL Awards, Past Eric Bittle/Jack Zimmerman, Post-Break Up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:52:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7304026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verity/pseuds/ladyalysv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At least with Parse, it's hard to fuck things up more. (2016)</p>
            </blockquote>





	keep your lights on

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_rocket_frost](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_rocket_frost/gifts).



> ashe: it's you, it's you, it's all for you
> 
> thanks so much to dangercupcake for the killer beta and to eppy and bookhousegirl for their help and enthusiasm!  
>  
> 
> (n.b. this is set after Jack and Bitty break up. if that's not your jam, forewarned is forearmed, etc~)

"I'm grateful to my parents," Jack says, because he didn't write a backup speech. "And to the Falconers organization, and Samwell Hockey. Thanks. Thank you."

People clap. With the lights in his eyes, Jack can't see beyond the edge of the stage. The Calder is lighter than he expected. He grips it by the neck and supports it from the bottom. Carries it off the stage. Someone takes it from him when he steps off—it doesn't belong to him, not really, of course. Just his to hold, for a little while.

Afterward, he answers question politely. Yes, he's had an incredible rookie season. Yes, his parents are proud. Yes, it's amazing to come back like this. Yes, he thinks the Falconers will make it to the playoffs next year. 

He poses for photos, first on his own, then with Papa and Maman. There's a reception afterwards. Everyone wants a picture. Jack smiles. He's supposed to be happy. Someone from the NHL is Snapchatting this. He wonders if Eric is watching.

"I love you," Maman says. Jack bends down so she can press a kiss to his cheek.

* * *

There's champagne everywhere, but Jack's out of the habit. Still, the circulating waitstaff keep trying to fill his empty hands. 

"Oh, I'll take that," a familiar voice says, intercepting a glass flute. "Thanks." It's Parse.

Jack clears his throat. "No offense, but—"

"No offense, bro, but I don't want to hear whatever bullshit's about to come out of your mouth," Parse says lightly. The last time they spoke this long off the ice was at Samwell. Jack can't read his expression. "Wanna get out of here?"

Like the champagne, Jack's out of the habit. But he doesn't say no.

Parse's throat ripples as he throws back the champagne. "Zimms," he says. "Come on. You don't want to be here."

"Okay," Jack says, because it's true.

* * *

No one talks except their Uber driver, who is either aggressively oblivious or actually doesn't recognize them. Parse's condo is southeast of the city, an expansive loft decorated like a trendy hotel lobby. His cat greets them at the door, and Parse squats low to scratch her beneath her chin; Jack lets her sniff him while Parse locks up behind them.

"I got water and… BioSteel." Parse turns on the lights in the kitchen. "What's your poison?"

"Whatever you're having," Jack says.

"See, I used to make this mistake," Parse says. "I used to think you said what you meant when it mattered, and not, like, the opposite. You want me to mix both of us a Cosmo? Is that what you want?"

One whole wall of the condo is glass. From the couch, Jack has a perfect view of the glittering lights of the city. He can see everything. "No."

Parse gets each of them a glass of filtered water with crushed ice and a jaunty umbrella, then shoves back issues of _Sports Illustrated_ and crumpled takeout menus to the side to make room for them on the coffee table. "Look, I'll join you. We can get sober and awkward together."

"I _am_ sober," Jack says.

Parse shrugs. "You're fucked up on something, man."

The lights are still on in Parse's kitchen, but this side of the open-plan living area is dim. The walls go up and up, drywall and glass and steel. Jack takes the umbrella out of his cup so he doesn't end up stabbing himself in the face with it. In the middle of the desert, even tap water would taste good.

"Or somebody," Parse says. "Been there."

Jack huffs. "No, you haven't."

"Sure I have. Just not with you."

After a moment, Jack says, "You're a dick."

"Yeah," Parse says, unabashed. "That's why you love me."

* * *

Eric and Parse are both short, blond, and bright-eyed, as well as exclusively attracted to men. Shitty's not wrong when he says Jack has a type. He's allowed to say those things, because he's Shitty: he can cuddle Jack naked and steal food off Jack's plate and make the whole team watch _Gilmore Girls_ ; they trust him implicitly. Jack trusts him, but he still never told Shitty that he and Eric were together until after it was over.

He trusts Parse in a different way. 

"Must have been some premium pussy to get you this worked up," Parse says. "Who is she?"

"Not a—" Jack's throat is dry. "Not a girl." 

He’s never said that to Parse before. He’s never said that to anyone. Everyone could tell how he felt about Eric: it was almost like he didn't have to say it. He would have, though--was going to. The speech Jack wrote is still in his suitcase, scrawled on a notecard and tucked into the compartment where he packs his dress shoes. Too little, too late.

"Some _guy_ , then," says Parse.

Jack swallows. "Hell of a guy." 

Parse doesn't say anything else, just looks at Jack, level. "If you were anybody else, I'd get you drunk."

"Anybody else, huh?"

"It's what you do for a friend," Parse says. "And shut the fuck up, we're friends, don't you open your mouth."

"I was going to say thanks," Jack says.

"Oh," says Parse. "Well. You can suck my dick if you want."

* * *

Jack spent their entire time in the Q wanting to suck Parse's dick, but he never made a move. Not that Jack regrets it. He was hardly better with Eric, and look how well that turned out. At least with Parse, it's hard to fuck things up more.

"Oh, for real?" Parse says when Jack meets his eyes. "Thought you were too chicken." He goes for his belt, frees the buckle, draws the ends apart.

"Maybe I am," Jack says as Parse undoes his pants. "Not for this, though." He loosens his tie.

The floor isn't kind to Jack's knees, but Parse smells clean and musky, his neat pubic hair relentlessly manscaped. His dick is half hard. Jack puts his hand around the base, pulls Parse's dick into his mouth. His thumb brushes Parse's balls. Jack fantasized about this for years, but he was a kid fantasizing about another kid, both selves lost to them now. For a moment, he feels sick with guilt, deeply disloyal; then Parse says, "Watch your teeth, babe," and Jack pulls back a little. "Oh, you got it, you got it. Keep doing that. Yeah." 

Parse's dick is bigger than Jack is used to. He gets sloppy, choking on it, spit slicking his lips. Parse keeps talking the whole time, fingers anxiously carding through Jack's hair like he wants to tug it. Jack reaches up with his free hand to hold one of Parse's in place. This is what he came for: to be roughed up, used, subdued. To be known.

"So good, oh." Parse thrusts his hips, just a little. "I knew you'd be good, Zimms. You—always—so—I knew—"

Jack swallows, because he _is_ good. He's the best. They gave him a trophy tonight to say so.

* * *

Afterward, Parse doesn't offer to return the favor, but he does get Jack another glass of water. "Call your parents or whoever, let them know where you are. I'll make up the spare bedroom."

Jack doesn't really want to go back to his hotel room, so he says, "Okay," and texts Maman. There are dozens of notifications on his phone from the Samwell group chat, and one from Eric. Jack doesn't read any of them. He puts his phone on silent and leaves it facedown on the coffee table. Outside, the lights of Las Vegas are still glittering. If he squints, he can make out the T-Mobile Arena.

"You look like shit," Parse says, appearing again, this time with his cat purring in his arms. "Time for bed."

Jack strips down to his briefs, pulls on the 3X Aces t-shirt that Parse dug out of somewhere, and climbs into the plush California King. Parse's hand is on the light switch when Jack says, "Stay with me?"

Parse turns off the light. "Sure," he says. "No problem."


End file.
